Called An It
by SisyphusWorker
Summary: A young servant, drafted into servanthood at a young age, laments about her pathetic life. Living with a sadistic superior, she is affronted by the pains of violence and abuse. Oneshot. Humanized Gems AU. Rated T for prevalent violent themes


"I said to clean those hunks o'junk up yesterday! Have a brain for goodness's sake!" yelled my superior in front of me, denoting the piles and mounds of chores and garbage in the rooms I discerned to be cleaned. A swift slap followed to my reddened cheek.

"Y-yes, Ms. Holly," I replied.

"By noon time, I want this mess cleaned up when Ms. Diamond and her sisters arrive. I want **no** single speck **nor** splotch of dirt. Understand?" she reminded at me.

I managed to say a muffled _yes_ , but I wasn't sure if she heard—not that I care about it—and I forgot to curtsy as well. I knew that she'll slap me or punch me once more. I can endure the pain, so it's okay. This angered her more than her usual strict and arbitrary fits. I can understand that she's like this because of her "beloved master", "tyrannical oppressor" for me, coming to the villa along with her sisters.

"I can't **hear** you!" Ms. Holly shouted again and, this time, punched my right eye, covered by my messy, blue hair. Pain flowed in as it would. However, I'm used to it already. When she acts like this, it always means that I have to either curtsy or respond audibly, or even both.

"Yes, madam. I shall follow the tasks accordingly." I gracefully bowed when I replied. I do this decorum every time I answer back. This has become my protocol in responding to commands since I was first employed here. Maybe _employed_ isn't the right term; _forced_ sounds better.

"Better," she responded dryly and clapped twice. "Now chop-chop!" With the last sentence, she marched out of my shabby room and slammed the door behind me. I was glad she finally left. My lungs returned to their normal breathing and my pulse lessened in beats per minute.

Contemplating that could she would come back, I combed my hair (still covering my eyes), undressed my tattered outfit, wore my black-and-white maid uniform, and tied my headband. Since it was the season of winter, and given the cold blizzard blowing in the villa, I skipped bathing. At least that was pardonable by my the _sirviente superior_ , a kind of label Ms. Holly self-appointed.

How ironic that Ms. Holly calls herself that title—Ms. Holly may be Ms. Diamond's loyal servant. Regardless of the sincere loyalty we demure serfs give to Ms. Diamond, she is the **only** servant given Ms. Diamond's biased feelings and privileges.

I was dressed completely, but my bruises and lashes on my fair skin still show. I remembered Carnelian, my close friend and partner, gave me long gloves and stockings that shielded my wounds from the eyes of many. Honestly, she was one the people whom I could give the sincerest feelings of mine. I proceeded to wear the gifts, enduring the pain of the dried gashes and cuts, but that was the wrong move.

It was my mistake to wear these gifts albeit from Carnelian. It was the first time I wore these. The pain. The pain when the clothes given by Carnelian hit my wounds was unbearable. There was nothing wrong on wearing them. It just pressed and made my wounds hurt more than usual. Like an unending barrage of pounds, cracks, whips, stabs, tackles, and stings, my pain coursed deep into my nerves. I couldn't handle it. Though I tried not to make it loud, I let up and finally cried. My sobs warmed my cold shell. It has been 12 years since I last cried.

When I cried, even wiping my own tears hurt me physically and emotionally. It's not that I'm bitter; I've been harassed throughout these years I've been living in. So that's when I decided—I decided to look at my mirror and see my reflection in such a long time already. I planned to face my fears.

In my own will, I forced myself to look at my personal reflection across my shattered mirror. How long have the years gone by since I last gazed upon my own reflection? From what I can remember, 12 years ago in the dawn of my serfdom, I stared at my—how do I put it— _fine_ reflection, free from the stripes and marks of abuse and oppression.

The light lit in my chamber and, finally, the mirror reflected my uncovered face, woven by small cuts and the fresh red slap mark from Ms. Holly. I was loath to open the segment covered by my bangs. Although my hesitance, I shut my eyes and nippily swiped my bangs covering my eyes and forehead. I knew I would regret reopening my vision. Scavenging remnants of my dignity, I opened my eyes.

Compared to my young face 12 summers before, my face was completely horrid. The sight of the unhealed black eyes darkened more than my deep eye bags and a long whiplashed strike gashed through my forehead, sprinkled with other small cuts riddled on my forehead. These past scars and present lacerations haunt me up to now. I can't take it anymore. I knew I shouldn't have gazed on my reflection. My hands suddenly lost its nerves and covered back my face. When the clouds hovered over, I couldn't see my reflection any longer.

I shouldn't have done that.

I tried to hold back my tears, I really did! But… No, I couldn't. More tears built up and finally released. Droplets fell into the black, wooden table I had. The tears streamed in more and more, like a stream coursing through a mountain path. I lost my balance as I walked back and fell down on the wooden floor, dirtying my uniform. If I did look back my reflection, my eyes would be swollen red. However, I chose not to.

I was my mistake to do that.

I dusted the dirt off my uniform, sniffing my colds as I did. There, I suddenly thought about the time I took in my room. There, I felt fear prick my spine and joints. I saw the time. More than 15 minutes had passed before Ms. Holly exited. She was so time conscious.

There, footsteps came marching. There, I panicked to regain my composure. There, my façade I have been keeping up for the last 12 years faded.

Why did I do that?

The door slammed open when I was still getting up. My fears worsened when Ms. Holly brought with her the infamous whip I ever so dreaded. I was 1.3 meters long, based on my calculations after being greeted by it for years. I had to face my fears and consequences for not fulfilling the task. It was 7:15 AM.

"Well, well, well. I wonder who **didn't** do the assigned task just now…" Ms. Holly said as she gripped the whip hard. I remained silent.

"Oh? Do you want me to answer it? Or maybe little ol' whippie can answer for you, y'know?" I still said nothing. Was it to rebel? Beg for mercy? Fall unto her commands? I do not even know which.

As a mistake, I sniffed. I shouldn't have done that. It was my mistake to do that. But why… why did I do that? I've never sniffed nor bawled since then.

"You… You sniffed." It was my bad mistake. "I know I heard you sniffed. You… Show me your eyes, now!" I quickly swiped my hair covering my eyes. She saw my reddened eyes and a few tear residues, sticking along with my black eye.

"Aww… Come here, now," she first ordered me in a comfortable way. I knew she was sarcastic when she did that, but still approach I did. I expected what she would do to me.

When I neared her, Ms. Holly's face was cold like the Devil's. The next thing I felt, she shoved my head to the right until I hit a nearby wall. Thank goodness it was wooden. I struggled to get up until Ms. Holly gripped my uniform's collar and dragged me to her. I fell over like I was some sort of abused animal. In their eyes, I'm worse than an abused animal.

"Stand up. _Sirrah_ , stand up!" Ms. Holly shouted. I hated that word _sirrah_. It was a name for any lowly slave or servant. I slowly got up amidst the throbbing pain of my head lump. I turned to her with my head down.

"I hate crying slaves. You know what I do, right? This is just for _discipline and training_ , after all." Discipline. I always hear that word when I get whipped. That curse of a word: discipline. "Remove those crappy gloves and stockings." I did as she told me to. The pain resurfaced as I removed them. I placed the blood-splotched clothing on my wooden bed. Seems like my wounds opened up, and I was going to get a beating soon.

I returned back to her barefoot with my bare, bruised arms and my now-blackish legs. I braced for it. A series of cracks soon followed, and I was right.

"Just look back and stay there. Close your eyes…" I complied to her orders. Obviously, I felt my tear stream down. As the tear dripped down, I prepared for one of the worst.

And the first swing launched—one to my right leg. I made a yelping noise as I fell on my knees. Then another to my left leg, with twice the effort exerted. This time, I only gasped. I could feel the blood trickle down my scraped skin, as well as how my tears streamed down my eyes. My persona broke after all these years. Then another. Then another. Then another until my legs were crossed in scraped and X's from the lashes. I maintained my position on my knees, as if I was praying, but I wasn't.

"Stand, _sirrah_. Stand!" I wriggled as I stood up. Amidst my pain, I learned to endure it. My tears, as of now, I couldn't.

Ms. Holly snickered and chuckled as she tightened her grip once more. Unexpectedly, she came to me. She vehemently whispered to my ears, "Let's try something new. 'Kay?" _New_? I didn't what she meant until she felt my chest. Something mischievously wicked, I first thought.

She pushed me with force as I knocked over my battered chair. She turned to the door and locked it. The room grew even more darker when grey winter clouds hovered, dimming the light. I couldn't do anything but lie down and contemplate whatever malicious things she could do to me. With my semi-blurred and covered vision, I saw Ms. Holly with a sadistic smile. Her heeled feet stomped on my stomach as I coughed up some saliva

"It's prime time you heard these from my mouth already, since you're entering your adulthood and it's your _birthday_. Oh yeah, Happy 20th Birthday, Pearl," she scornfully spat at the last sentence. I never thought she'd ever say that. The concept of birthdays was completely obliterated with only ideas of work and escape, but this was the first time I ever such words. From her mouth, no less. This made me more terrified, thinking she could find some other torture methods to roast me. She leaned near my discreetly frightened face and told me these chilling words before barraging me with a successions of thrashes:

"You are such useful slave for me to play with. Unlike others, you possess something… _special_. Those others, Carnelian and Jasper? They don't appease me. You, however, are an odd one out. With my power, I can do _**any single thing to you**_ **.** The problem is, you still need to be alive… Don't get me wrong, I _love_ you. Here's a gift for your 20th birthday. Please, enjoy!"

Why is it me? Why? Why? How can I ever quench this woman's desire to feel finally satiated? What is it that I have that keeps me on being tormented and abused? Am I really that special? Am I **even** special? I'm just a lowly slave for those two tyrant's comedy acts. So why… Why?

If there were any passersby outside this room, which was unlikely, they could hear the sharp snaps and blows of the whip slashing through my well-knitted uniform I wore with me in my serf duties and the once fair skin in all parts of my body. The beatings cackled on and on as I began to scream silently in pain.

Could this be what she was waiting for? I can see her ruthless and atrocious smile as I finally screamed in anguish for the first time in 12, no, 13 years in this punitive convulsion. I dare not call this _home_.

I desperately wished to be free—free of this insane and asinine bondage, free from this uncaring asylum, free from these putrid stooges, free from all their shrill ridicule, free from this dystopia I live in. I want to live a life with my dead family; a place where I can breathe with no qualms about the dishes and the food I'm forced to make. I desire a place where I can soothe my body in the healing touch of an angel that cures it all. But that is merely a fictional dream of a fool, a pitiable, worthless, lunatic fool.

I just want to be free.


End file.
